


(Not) Lost in the Silence of Solitude

by Naruthien



Series: (Mis-) Perception [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drugs, Gen, Not Beta Read, One Shot, Torture, Violence, it's not as bad as the tags make it look, set between TRF and TEH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 11:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6004057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naruthien/pseuds/Naruthien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock puts himself in peril trying to dismantle Moriarty's network, he finds help from an unexpected source.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Not) Lost in the Silence of Solitude

Sherlock Holmes had always talked _at_ people. Sometimes, he indeed talked _to_ them, and in the unlikely case he found they had something to contribute to the conversation, he even talked _with_ them. When he was a child and there had been nobody to talk to (or even at), their Irish setter Redbeard had patiently listened to young Sherlock's ramblings. Many years later, Billy the skull had dutifully taken on that role.

After Mycroft had taught him how, he had also been able to summon people to his mind palace to talk to or as placeholders for different solutions to a problem, but of course they only came when he called for them. Never, however, had Sherlock heard any of their imaginary voices talk by their own volition. They did not have a will of their own – and how could they, when they were only created by the power of his imagination.

It was, therefore, quite a shock when Sherlock started to hear John Watson's voice – not in his mind palace, but invading his own thoughts. The first time it happened, he was lying half-unconscious on the concrete floor of a dark and damp cell in an industrial area somewhere near Rotterdam, about two months after apparently having committed suicide by jumping off the roof of St Bart's hospital. To attempt to dismantle Moriarty's network, he had planned to infiltrate a large production facility for ecstasy and methamphetamine in the Netherlands to identify the facility's managers and financial service providers.

His plans, however, were thwarted by a contact who turned out to be less trustworthy than expected. After the contact had sold him out to the drug cartel's bosses, Sherlock had been abducted and kept starving in a windowless room for several days. His attempt to be clever during the first interrogation had only won him a knife to his right thigh and a fist to his face that had made him black out until he woke again in the dark, alone except for the insistent drumming of rain falling heavily onto the corrugated steel roof and the distant roll of thunder.

Curled up into a ball on the ground, it would have been easy to slip away into the darkness that was gathering at the corners of his mind. Sleep – yes, that would be lovely, and what exactly was the point in fighting off the encroaching unconsciousness? Just as the blackness threatened to pull him under, a strangely familiar voice called out to him.

“Stay with me, Sherlock,” the voice said firmly, not quite a command but not a plea either. “You'll be alright, but you can't sleep now. You need to stay awake and take care of that incision.”

He knew that voice, of course he did, but couldn't quite seem to be able to recall who it belonged to – not right away, at least. He'd solve that little problem later... there were more pressing matters to attend to now. The voice was right, he needed to stay awake if he wanted to live. After all, he hadn't completed his mission yet.

With some effort, Sherlock opened his eyes. It was dark and there was no source of light inside his cell, but a small strip of pale daylight spilled inside from under the single door connecting his prison to the outside world. He tried to move his hands and realized with some surprise that his captors hadn't even bothered to handcuff him again. “Their first mistake,” the voice echoed his own thoughts. “They'll make more, just wait and see.”

Pressing both his hands onto the cold floor, he carefully tried to lift himself up. His limbs felt impossibly heavy as his arms started to tremble and his vision turned blurry. “Easy, Sherlock, you've lost a lot of blood,” the voice said with concern. “You might feel dizzy or nauseous if you sit upright too fast. Take it slow for once, will you?”

The voice was right, of course. The queasy feeling in his stomach made bile rise up in his throat, but he slowly kept going nevertheless. Once he was sitting with his back to the bare wall, he let his hands fall to his sides and just concentrated on taking deep breaths to get through the nausea. When it finally subsided, he felt terribly tired, and sleep was beckoning again.

“Sherlock, I know you're tired, but I need you to attend to that cut. Let's check what it looks like, okay?”

With a resigned sigh, he took a closer look at the gash in his trousers, but there was too little light to make out more than the dark stain surrounding it. He carefully probed the throbbing wound with his fingertips. 12 cm wide, but apart from that it was hard to discern anything except for the steadily increasing wetness of the surrounding fabric.

“You need compression to stop the bleeding,” the voice reminded him. “I'd prefer sterile bandages, but we'll just have to make do with what we've got here.”

Without even a pocket knife or any other sharp object, ripping his trousers into suitable strips was out of the question, so the only option was his shirt. He carefully shrugged it off, groaning in pain as it snagged on his swollen fingers that were the result of having to go through his captor's version of a lie-detector test which included breaking first the little and then the ring finger of his left hand. After wrapping the shirt tightly around the wound, he bound the sleeves together to hold the improvised bandage in place.

Next, Sherlock tried to remember what he knew about his surroundings. He had been taken when he left his hotel and brought here in the trunk of a car (Volkswagen Passat, approximately 5 years old, worn wheel bearing) with a coarse black hood covering his face, but the short walk from the car to his cell had given him enough hints to know he was in an industrial area somewhere outside the city centre and fairly close to the port. The cries of sea gulls and ship horns had been nearly drowned out by the hum of countless lorries and the rumbling and clunking of a nearby recycling plant.

The lights had been on during the interrogation, and despite the distraction of the lie-detector test, he could recall the details of his cell with great clarity. 2 by 3 metres, no windows and only one steel-enforced door with no handle on the inside. Some pipes along the walls, right below the ceiling. A drain in the middle of the floor, covered with a rusty grate. Bare concrete walls. Not much to go on, really.

“There's has to be something else. Think!” The voice's tone was urgent yet confident and calm, and it helped him to concentrate. The room, it had to be something about the room, something obvious, something –

Oh.

_Oh._

Of course. The door. The door opened to the _inside_.

He needed to get up and move behind the door. However, that was easier said than done. As he tried to get his limbs back under his command and stand up, another wave of nausea hit him hard and cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Panting, he fought for control while his roiling stomach slowly calmed down again. When he felt fairly sure he wouldn't be sick, he carefully took a wobbly step forwards. A sharp pain shot through his injured leg like the crack of a whip, stealing his breath and bringing tears to his eyes, but he needed to keep moving. Supporting himself with one hand on the wall, he slowly hobbled over to the corner of the room. With his back braced against the wall, he settled down to sit and wait.

The drumming of the rain on the roof turned into a soft patter and finally stopped altogether, and still nothing moved beyond the door. Sherlock's eyelids grew heavy and then heavier still, and his thoughts began to drift and wander, untethered and without focus. The light grew dimmer – soon, his cell would be plunged back into complete darkness. He felt a strange weightlessness settle over him as sleep beckoned to him.

“Sherlock, listen to me. Don't fall asleep, okay? There's a good chance someone will come soon, so you need to be prepared. Can you do that for me?”

That voice again. Why wouldn't it just leave him alone? He was so damn tired, and all he could think of was a large bed with crisp, silky sheets and warm, soft pillows that smelled of Mrs Hudson's laundry detergent, and oh, it would be so lovely to just rest his tired body and let his head fall onto those plush pillows and close his eyes and sink into blissful drea–

“Bloody hell, Sherlock, don't you DARE go to sleep now! Your sodding life depends on it, so STAY FOCUSSED!”

His eyes snapped open as he lifted his head and peered in the direction of the door. Under different circumstances he'd have feigned outrage at being shouted at like this, or maybe he would have pretended cool indifference toshow his superiority. Not now, though. Because what the voice had said – it was true, and he didn't have the strength to pretend otherwise.

Just as the nagging feeling that he definitely knew that voice, that angry and commanding and caring and worried voice, returned in full force, he heard footsteps approaching. Only one person, wearing boots that crunched as they carried gravel from the outside onto the concrete landing of his door. The barely visible strip of light under the door suddenly turned bright again, accompanied by the incessant hum of the fluorescent lights starting up. A key was inserted into the lock followed by a loud click as the cylinder turned.

As the door swung open on creaking hinges and the shadow of a person fell onto the cell's floor, Sherlock lifted his left foot and put every ounce of strength he had left into kicking it back shut. The soft thud of the door colliding with the person's body was followed by the clatter of a metal tray and the plunking sound of a plastic cup and plate hitting the floor.

Sherlock sprang up, ignoring the lightning bolt of pain in his right leg, and jerked the almost closed door back open. In the room beyond, a man in his 40s with a weather-beaten face and beady eyes lay sprawled on his back, struggling to get up while simultaneously scrabbling to get his gun (an FN Browning Hi-Power semi-automatic pistol, 13-round magazine, effective range 50 m) out if its holster. A quick kick to his right hand sent the gun flying across the floor until it hit the far side of the wall with a metallic clank. While the man's wide, fearful eyes followed the pistol sail hopelessly out of his reach, Sherlock took careful aim and kicked him in the temple. As if a switch had been flicked, the man's eyes rolled back while they closed and his head lolled to the side.

A quick glance out of the window revealed that dusk had fallen. In what appeared to be the main building, several windows were brightly lit, but despite all the noise it had caused, their little incident apparently hadn't alarmed anybody – at least not yet. Sherlock picked up the pistol and tucked it into the waistband of his trousers, then quickly returned to the man's side to check his pockets. His wallet contained a small bundle of Euro bills as well as his ID and driver's licence. Sherlock pocketed the whole thing and returned to rifling the man's possessions, but besides a set of car keys in addition to a pack of Marlboros and a lighter, he didn't turn up anything useful.

After putting everything in his pockets, Sherlock pulled off the man's hideous jacket and shrugged into it. He also stripped him of his shirt and trousers – no time to put them on now, but they would come in handy once he got out of here. His leg started throbbing again as the wave of adrenaline that had flooded his system began to subside, but he still managed to pull the man into the cell. With a satisfying click, he closed the door and locked it.

Another look outside confirmed that the air was still clear, so he carefully made his way around the compound, always keeping to the shadows, until he finally found the man's car (a silver Ford Focus) sitting in the half-empty employee car park. Once he sat inside with the man's belongings stashed on the passenger's seat beside him, Sherlock took a trembling breath of air that smelled of stale smoke and days-old takeaway – a stark contrast to the cool evening air outside.

When he turned the key in the ignition, the sound of the starting engine seemed terribly loud. Putting the car into first gear, he looked towards the front gate. Closed, of course. Thought maybe... he slowly pulled up to the closed gates, and found that they did indeed open automatically. As he shifted into second gear, he glanced into the rear-view mirror, but everything remained eerily quiet. With a sigh of relief, he turned right onto the main street and accelerated further until the damned building was finally out of sight. After driving what he considered a reasonably safe distance, Sherlock pulled into a quiet side street, killed the engine and let his head fall back against the seat's head rest. He closed his eyes and considered his options.

He wanted nothing more than to get back to his dingy hotel room and finally, finally go to sleep, but unfortunately that was not an option. They had known where he had stayed (even though he had, of course, used an assumed name to check in), so it was very unwise to return. He'd definitely have to find a new base of operation. He'd also need a new identity since his current one had been compromised, but that was another problem to be solved later.

More pressing was the matter of his makeshift wound dressing. The blood had started to soak through his shirt, painting it a deep scarlet. The increasingly painful throbbing of his broken finger reminded him that he ought to attend to that, too. There were several hospitals in Rotterdam, though that was no help at all. He had been lucky enough to escape unnoticed – it was unlikely his absence would remain undiscovered for much longer, and there was no way to know which doctor, nurse or administration secretary was in the cartel's pockets. Luckily, any local doctor's office would be closed by now. All he needed to do was gain access and collect the supplies he needed.

He pulled out of the side street and kept driving east until he came into the residential area of one of the many suburbs of Rotterdam. It didn't take long until he finally spotted a pharmacy with a big illuminated “apotheek” sign and – as expected – a GP's office next door. The lights were out, so he parked the car and peered out of the window. Not a single person was out on the rain-wet street, and apparently there was a small alley that led to a back entrance. Perfect.

He popped open the boot of the car to see if there was something he could use to gain access. There was a first-aid kit (expired and missing half its contents), a breakdown triangle, a reflective safety vest, a spare tyre, a car jack, a wrench – and a crowbar. Of course, he would have preferred a professional lock-pick set, but the crowbar would have to do. At least it was less noticeable than shooting the lock.

Accompanied by the muffled sound of splintering wood, the back door easily gave way. Inside, Sherlock quickly found the medicine cabinet, and helped himself to a packet of tramadol tablets, and a vial of cefazolin and 1% lidocaine each. In a cupboard, he found sterile cotton gauze swabs, bandages, tape and sterile drapes, which he stuffed into one of the office's plastic bin bags. Another cupboard contained surgical gloves, scissors, forceps, needle holders, packets of nylon suture materials and a splint for his finger. He also took a bottle of betadine and sterile saline solution from one of the shelves as well as some disposable syringes and needles from a drawer.

He was already halfway through the back exit when the voice he'd heard in his cell stopped him in his tracks. “What about that lock-picking equipment? It might prove useful to have something a little more subtle than a crowbar or a gun, don't you think?”

Cursing under his breath, Sherlock returned to the reception area to rifle through the desk and filing pedestals. The balance of probability was that at least some of the medical assistants were female – it was therefore not a surprise to find some bobby pins in the uppermost drawer. He also grabbed a handful of paper clips from a tray on the desk for good measure.

When he finally returned to the car with his bag full of supplies, it had started to rain again, though this time is was a fine, cold drizzle that chilled him to his very core. His hands were shaking so badly he nearly dropped his keys trying to unlock the car. Taking a deep breath, he rummaged in the bag until he found the tramadol packet, popped one pill out of its blister and swallowed it dry. It would still take some time for the drug to take effect, but on the upside he also didn't have to worry about the side effects like dizziness and drowsiness for another 20-30 minutes. Driving under the influence had never been one of his favourite pastimes.

Considering his current state and outfit, there was no way to just inconspicuously rent a hotel room. He'd have to hide out somewhere else. Driving through a residential area with small houses, he quickly found what he was looking for: No car in the front, lights off, closed venetian blinds, empty window boxes, weeds growing between the stones of the paved driveway. Most likely a family quarrel over how to split up the inheritance, hence no “For sale” sign – at least yet.

Before gaining access to his shelter for the night, he had to hide the car, though. Sherlock doubted the former owner would report it as stolen, but didn't feel like taking any more chances tonight. He would have preferred to dump it in a large car park or, even better, a remote forest, but since neither happened to be within walking distance, the easiest solution was to simply hide it in the adjoining garage. For that, he'd have to surreptitiously pick the lock and hope the door's hinges didn't creak loud enough to wake half the neighbourhood.

As it turned out, the garage door was no match for a life-long practitioner of the fine art of lock-picking, even if said practitioner only had limited use of his left hand and suffered from a loss of blood that made him feel shaky and woozy (though that also might be caused by the tramadol starting to kick in). After less than a minute the door easily swung open on well-oiled hinges, and in no time the car was safely out if sight. Presuming that the main door would be harder to pick (and more suspicious should somebody decide to take his dog for an evening walk in the rain), he grabbed the bag and the small bundle of clothes from the passenger's seat. At the back of the house he climbed over a low wall that surrounded the small garden. Another picked lock later he was standing in a silent, dark kitchen. The air was cold and musty – he'd been right about the house not being occupied.

Sherlock didn't dare to turn on the lights, and instead proceeded carefully into the darkened hall and up the stairs, where he found a study, a bedroom and a small, windowless bathroom with a tub. He dropped the clothes on a chair in the bedroom and flung the pistol onto the bed before entering the bathroom. He gently closed the door behind him before switching on the lights. The sudden brightness flooding the room made him blink.

As he upended the plastic bag on the bathroom floor, the clatter of metal on ceramic reverberated ominously in the small tiled room. Sherlock looked thoughtfully at the contents of the bag strewn haphazardly in front of him. He'd need to use his hands as best as he could for the sutures, which meant he first needed to see to his broken fingers. Setting them hurt like hell and brought tears to his eyes, but he breathed through the pain and when it had somewhat subsided, secured the splint with tape.

He then sat on the edge of the tub and removed his shoes and socks. The makeshift bandage that had once been his shirt was now a dark rusty-red colour, and the blood seeping through had painted trails down his thigh. He removed the shirt-turned-bandage and gingerly peeled off his ruined trousers. Next, he picked up the sterile saline solution and lowered his leg into the tub. He laved saline solution over the wound, watching the clear liquid turn a pale pink as it washed away chunks of dried blood and trickled down his leg and into the drain.

When the bottle was empty, the wound was clean of debris and dried blood but still leaking a pale blood dilute with serum. He grabbed a towel from the rack next to the sink and patted himself dry, then reached for the bottle of betadine and some cotton swabs. After applying the betadine to the skin around the cut, he carefully washed his hands with soap, dried them and put on the surgical gloves. He knew what to do – he'd seen John do it more than enough times. He carefully covered the area around the cut with a sterile drape and picked up a syringe, a needle and the vial of lidocaine. He unwrapped the syringe and mounted the needle, then pushed it through the seal into the vial, drew the barrel full and held it to the light. To get rid of any air bubbles, he snapped the side of the syringe with his finger and pressed the plunger until a small bead appeared at the tip of the needle.

He then slid the needle into the flesh next to the cut without flinching – he had a lot of practice with injections, after all – keeping the needle close to the skin surface and pushing it in as far as it would go. As he withdrew the needle again, he steadily pushed the plunger to inject the clear liquid. After repeating the procedure on the other side of the cut, he capped the syringe and put it aside to pick up the forceps, the needle holder and the suture material.

Loading the curved needle was simple, but making the first suture and knotting it was harder than John had made it look when he'd stitched Sherlock up time after time at 221B. Sherlock did get better with every suture, though, and the last ones looked fairly neat to his eyes. There would probably still be scarring, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to care – it was all just transport, anyway.

After dressing the wound with some gauze pads and sealing the edges with tape, he unwrapped another syringe and needle, and drew up a shot of cefazolin that he injected into his thigh muscle. At last, he pulled off the gloves and washed his hands. God, he was tired. His head felt like it had been filled entirely with cotton balls. John would always clean up after one of their countless medical emergencies, putting everything back to its rightful place and carefully disposing of all sharp objects and contaminated materials. Sherlock briefly wondered what John was doing right now – probably watching some mindless show on the telly. Though since it was Friday evening, he might be out on a date again with another imbecilic girlfriend, now that Sherlock was no longer keeping him busy chasing criminals all around London.

He took a shuddering breath and pinched his eyes tightly shut. Sentiment was a dangerous disadvantage that he could not afford, especially not now.

Sherlock opened his eyes and tentatively placed both feet on the cold tile floor next to the tub, trying to stand up. Except for a bit of swaying and dizziness, it went remarkably well, all things considered, and without another look at the mess in the bathroom, he hobbled over to the adjoining bedroom and passed out on the bed, his hand curled around the gun. Just before sleep overtook him, he thought he heard a softly whispered “Goodnight” that made him think of crackling fires and the sweet song of his violin.

***

John's voice turned out to be a constant companion on his mission to destroy Moriarty's network. Whether Sherlock was crouched behind a car under cracking gunfire in Colombia, being shouted at by opium smugglers in Afghanistan who were fond of a good flogging, or on a miserably cold stake-out in the silence of a pre-dawn Moscow street, John's voice was always with him – sometimes angry, sometimes exasperated, but never cruel or spiteful; until the day Sherlock returned to London and realized that John, too, had suffered, and that he was the cause of it. Sherlock knew then that after what he'd done, he neither deserved John's kindness nor his caring – had never deserved them, for that matter.

In his head, John's voice turned bitter and resentful.

**Author's Note:**

> I am not a doctor and mainly got my medical information from Wikipedia, YouTube clips and my copy of "No Country for Old Men", so please let me know if I made any mistakes. Constructive criticism is always welcome; comments and kudos will be named, fed and loved with all my heart.


End file.
